


the feeling's irresistible

by enjolrasenthusiast



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, the ballet meets street dance au that literally no one asked for but im not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/enjolrasenthusiast
Summary: It’s so quick Enjolras thinks he might have imagined it, but as the dancers start their routine and the deafening cheers of the crowd fill Enjolras’ ears, the busker flashes a nearly imperceptible smile and wink in his direction.“Jesus,”Enjolras breathes.-Or, the one where Enjolras is a ballerina with a failing career, Grantaire is a street dancer with a failing studio, and the road to love starts in the basement of a dance club.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> shows up 5 months late with a new fic born of a step up 3 rewatch and my shameless undying love for early 2000s black eyed peas
> 
> hope you like this one, enjoy!!

It’s half past two and ten mistakes into the routine when Enjolras caves and shuts off the studio music, breathing heavily and running his hands over his face in frustration. He ignores the indignant sounds Courfeyrac is making behind him - his shoes are laced too tightly, his knees ache, and he can still hear the heavy bass filtering through the  _ supposedly  _ soundproof walls. From his place in the corner, Courfeyrac groans audibly, but Enjolras waves him off with the hand not currently planted firmly over his forehead.

“You could just turn the music up, you know,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s not like he’ll care.” 

Enjolras very pointedly begins undoing his laces. “And let him win? I don’t think so.”

Courfeyrac groans again, more likely for the novelty of it than out of any actual frustration, but toes off his pointe shoes as well. Enjolras spares a quick, annoyed glance for the treatment of the shoes as he shrugs on his hoodie, and Courfeyrac gives him an apologetic smile in return. It’s enough for Enjolras, who might have put more energy into berating him if not for the more pressing matter of chewing out the irritating street performer that keeps screwing with their rehearsal atmosphere. 

The lights click off behind them as they leave the studio, Courfeyrac digging through his bag for his wallet and Enjolras making a beeline for the lobby doors. Through the glass, he can see the street performer on the corner, offensively old-school boombox set on the ground next to him as he holds some ridiculous pose on his hands, with his feet in the air. There’s a small crowd around him, like there always is, cheering and jeering and generally making a nuisance of themselves, and Enjolras grinds his teeth at the grating sound of the applause. As he watches, the dancer stands back up and does a garish spin before taking a bow, and the cheers grow louder momentarily before dying down. Small victories.

“You know, he’s not half bad,” Courfeyrac says as they step out into the cold air.

“Sure, if you like that kind of thing. I don’t care if he’s good or bad, as long as he keeps it out of earshot of our rehearsals.” With that, Enjolras shoves his hands into his pockets and pushes his way towards the dancer. The crowd disperses as he comes closer, off to more important things now that the show is over and the music has stopped. Up close, Enjolras can see the man more clearly - the loose t-shirt soaked with sweat despite the brisk October chill, the hint of stubble along his jawline, the bags under his eyes.

The dancer picks up his tip jar from beside his speakers and begins to count the change. “Just missed the show, sorry,” he says with a smile in Enjolras’ direction, “but I’ll be here tomorrow if you’re around.”

“Actually-” Enjolras starts, but Courfeyrac cuts him off before he can finish.

“Don’t make trouble, Enj,” he hisses, then flashes a bright smile at the dancer. “Great show, you know.”

“Nice to know someone enjoyed it,” says the dancer, tipping an invisible hat to Courfeyrac.

“We rehearse in the studio here, actually,” Enjolras says. “Just came out to ask you to keep the noise down. It’s a bit distracting to the dancers.”

The man’s face sours instantly, eyes narrowed and brow furrowing. At his side, Courfeyrac shoots Enjolras a withering look, but Enjolras shrugs it off with practiced ease. It’ll be much easier to apologize to Courfeyrac after they’ve dealt with the noise complaint than to ignore this and keep putting up with shoddy rehearsal conditions. Enjolras is exhausted and hungry and under a great deal of stress, and he really couldn’t care less about some busker with a few crude dance moves.

“My music is as quiet as it can be without getting drowned out by traffic,” the dancer snaps. “You’ve got a whole studio, can’t you just turn yours up a bit more?”

“Maybe you should find a quieter street to take up,” Enjolras shoots back, and strides off before Courfeyrac can berate him. He needs a sandwich and a power nap, not a lecture. With a stammered apology to the dancer and a flurry of footsteps, Courfeyrac falls into step at his side, exhaling a pointed sigh in lieu of a proper response.

Behind them, the dancer packs away his things and turns the corner to leave.

-

“I still don’t get why you had to run him off the corner,” Courfeyrac says around a mouthful of salad. “He wasn’t bothering anyone but us.”

Enjolras exhales and glares at his own lunch as if the secrets to a happy, successful life could be found in a disposable cup of dijon mustard. “It’s not that he’s  _ bad,  _ I just can’t let our rehearsals spiral because he draws a noisy crowd. The showcase is in  _ two months,  _ Courf, we need all the time we can get.

“Is that what this is about?”

“You know it is,” Enjolras sighs. “I can hardly sleep these days, much less hold my temper around some street performer when my career is on the line.”

“And mine!”

“And yours.”

Courfeyrac steeples his fingers in front of his nose like some particularly sunny evil genius and leans forward. In the pit of Enjolras’ stomach, dread settles heavy - he knows that look on Courfeyrac’s face, and it never means anything good.

“Look, Enj, you and I have the same stake in this showcase, right?”

Enjolras draws out a confused, “yes?”

“But,” Courfeyrac says, clapping his hands once for emphasis, “I’m nowhere near as stressed as you are. Why?”

“I don’t -"

“ _ Because, _ Enj, I have these handy little things called stress relievers.” Courfeyrac leans back in his chair and spreads his hands, palms up. “Yoga, dates, movie nights.  _ Dancing.” _

There’s a heavy silence while Enjolras attempts to process what Courfeyrac is trying to say.

“We dance every day, Courf, I still don’t -“

“Not that kind of dancing,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras watches as a slow smile spreads over his face. “I’ll take you tonight. No ballet, best clothes, comfortable shoes.”

“Courfeyrac, I  _ really _ don’t have the time.”

“Everyone has time for clubbing. Go back to the studio, get a little more practice in if you want. I’ll pick you up at eight, whether you like it or not.” With that, Courfeyrac turns back to his salad, and Enjolras gives up and starts packing his things away. The keys to the studio are on the table next to Courfeyrac’s drink, and Enjolras grabs them with a wave and a half-hearted smile before turning back towards the studio. He might not be able to get out of a senseless night of clubbing with Courfeyrac, but he’ll be damned if he can’t get in at least a  _ little _ uninterrupted practice with the busker from earlier out of the way.

-

Courfeyrac shows up at the studio at eight on the dot, shutting off the music and effectively ruining Enjolras’ near-perfect cabriole.

“You’re not dressed,” he says, with about as much disdain as Enjolras has ever seen from a person wearing shutter shades and copious amounts of glitter. “I told you to be dressed by eight, not mid-practice.”

“I lost track of time,” Enjolras says, his voice flat.

Courfeyrac brandishes a large paper bag, waving it in the air before holding it out to Enjolras. “I knew you would, which is why I brought these for you.”

“Did you break into my apartment?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “It’s not breaking in if I know where you keep your spare key.”

“Right.”

Enjolras puts up a token protest as Courfeyrac bodily drags him out of the studio and towards the showers, but there’s not much heart in it. Courfeyrac is probably right, after all, Enjolras  _ could _ do with a bit of a stress reliever. He’s exhausted enough as it is, though, and as soon as the door to the showers is shut behind him, he sinks onto one of the benches and closes his eyes. It’s blissfully dark, even with the fluorescent overhead lights on, and there’s no sound aside from the gentle hum of the heating system and the muffled strains of Courfeyrac’s music coming through the wall - Enjolras figures he can give himself another minute or two of rest.

He snaps his eyes open five minutes later to the sound of Courfeyrac knocking on the door, and promptly falls sideways off the bench. Scrambling to his feet, he calls out a hurried, “one second, sorry!” and dashes for the nearest shower stall. The cold water works wonders at waking him up, the icy spray a sorely needed shock to his system. He rubs at his eyes hurriedly, trying to shake the last strains of sleep from his head as he rinses and towels off. 

Courfeyrac opens the door as Enjolras is digging through the bag of clothes. It’s not what he would have chosen to wear by a long shot - really, it’s like Courfeyrac had gone out of his way to pick the tightest clothes Enjolras owns, which is probably the case now that Enjolras thinks about it - but it doesn’t look half bad, and it’s not like Courfeyrac will let him go back home to change at this point. He’s a bit more awake now, at least, and Courfeyrac seems satisfied as he circles Enjolras like a glitter-clad vulture.

“You need this,” Courfeyrac reminds him as he fixes a stray curl hanging over Enjolras’ forehead. For once, Enjolras figures Courfeyrac is right.

-

There’s a line stretching down the street by the time they get to the Corinthe. Enjolras feels almost instantly out of place among the crowds of scantily clad and arguably inebriated people swarming the sidewalk, and he’s about to duck out of the entire plan altogether when Courfeyrac leads him past the street entrance and around the corner to a quiet side entrance. The door is manned by a large, intimidating man with swirling lines of tattoo ink up his arms, but Courfeyrac just saunters up the steps with a smile and a wave, Enjolras trailing behind. He’s fairly sure he’s gaping, and shakes his head just a bit to clear the haze from his thoughts. 

“Bahorel!” Courfeyrac says, going in for a hug that Enjolras is sure the stone-faced bouncer is going to shrug off. Surprisingly enough, the man’s face splits into a wide grin, and he pulls Courfeyrac in for a bear hug that leaves Enjolras blinking in confusion. Courfeyrac turns back to him, waving him up the steps. “Enj, this is Bahorel, we’re friends. Bahorel, Enjolras.” Leaning in towards Bahorel conspicuously, Courfeyrac stage-whispers, “It’s his first time out.”

“First timer, huh?” Bahorel’s voice is booming, and his laugh even more so as he waves the two of them through the side entrance. “Don’t let the ABC get ahold of him, I’ll never hear the end of it from either of you.”

“The ABC?” Enjolras asks, but before Courfeyrac can reply, the Corinthe opens huge and crowded around them.

The music is pulsing, bass heavy enough that it vibrates through the floor and up to Enjolras’ chest. It’s darker than any dance floor has the right to be, with neon displays on the walls and blacklights overhead. The room is packed and humid from what Enjolras can see, but the space around the two of them is conspicuously clear, and it takes Enjolras a disoriented minute to realize that the door they entered through brought them in behind the bar. It must be a staff entrance, he rationalizes, and wonders just how well Courfeyrac knows the staff at the Corinthe. 

Courfeyrac peels away from his side and exchanges a quick conversation with the bartender, a scruffy-looking redhead with a rag and glass in hand, and comes back with a pair of drinks for the two of them. Enjolras figures that’s about all the answer he needs. 

By the time Enjolras makes it onto the dance floor, he feels loose and at ease, relaxed enough to wave Courfeyrac off when he offers another drink. The crowd is thick around him, but it’s not as stifling as he thought it would be, and he can admit that it’s nice to be able to dance without worrying about form and routine and all the other aspects of ballet that follow him around daily. He dances with Courfeyrac until he’s comfortable enough to move away and take up the few offers that are shot his way. Every now and then, he’ll feel a pair of hands on his hips or shoulders, and the more comfortable he gets on the dance floor, the less he shrugs them off. He can give himself this one night out, he thinks, regardless of whatever is in store for him at the studio tomorrow.

Absently, Enjolras wonders if this is what the busker from earlier sees in dancing, the thrill of carefree expression. It’s so vastly different from ballet that he can hardly rationalize it as dancing - at least, the type of dance that he’s used to - but here in the Corinthe, Enjolras supposes he can see the appeal.

There’s another pair of hands on him all of a sudden, tugging him back rather than resting, and Enjolras turns around to tell off whoever is behind him. It’s only Courfeyrac, though, shouting something that Enjolras can’t hear over the pounding music and gesturing into the crowd. Enjolras turns and steps back to Courfeyrac’s side, just as the crowd in front of him thins and opens to form a wide circle in the center of the room. The crowd looks excited, waiting in anticipation, and a quick glance to the side shows Courfeyrac with the same gleeful expression on his face.

“What’s-” Enjolras starts, but before he can finish his question, the DJ switches the music from the contemporary dance that had been playing all night to something old-school that Enjolras can’t quite place. Around him, the crowd cheers loud enough to drown out the introduction the DJ gives. A tight grip closes around his wrist, and Courfeyrac drags Enjolras up to the front of the crowd, earning them front-row seats to whatever is about to happen.

“Bahorel said the ABC was coming out tonight,” he shouts into Enjolras’ ear, barely audible over the music and the wild noise of the crowd. “I’ve never seen them before, but they’re basically cult famous around here.”

Whatever Courfeyrac was about to say next is drowned in the rush of white noise that floods Enjolras’ head. The crowd falls silent around them, the beat drops, and four figures clad in matching black outfits rush into the center of the makeshift stage. Two of them are unfamiliar, a willowy boy with long, fiery hair and a girl with dark almond eyes and brown locks up in two tight buns. The third is the bartender Courfeyrac was talking to when they came in, a cap over his red hair and work uniform ditched for the same tight tee and jeans the rest of the dancers have on. Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat when he recognizes the fourth figure - even in the dim light of the club and without the faded jacket, the dark curls and exhilarating smile of the busker from the studio are unmistakable. 

Courfeyrac’s grip around Enjolras’ wrist tightens when the busker’s bright eyes sweep the crowd, and his gaze lands squarely on Enjolras, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before the girl at his side nudges him and he falls back into place at the head of the group. It’s so quick Enjolras thinks he might have imagined it, but as the dancers start their routine and the deafening cheers of the crowd fill Enjolras’ ears, the busker flashes a nearly imperceptible smile and wink in his direction.

“Jesus,” Enjolras breathes, but his voice is lost in the din of the music.

It’s clear from a few moments into the performance that this is the same routine the busker performed in front of the studio earlier that day, but here under the dim lights of the Corinthe, the energy of the dance takes on an entirely new life. Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s the fact that the busker is performing with three other dancers or if it’s just the atmosphere of the club, but the routine draws Enjolras in until he finds himself clapping and cheering alongside Courfeyrac, eyes fixed on the busker’s quick footwork and the chaotic tangle of choreography. It’s nothing like ballet, not by a mile, but he can see the appeal; and more than that, Enjolras thinks he might actually like it, too.

Courfeyrac is still at his side, hands in the air and a bright smile on his face, and he leans over to shout in Enjolras’ ear again. “Worth the night off?”

Enjolras grins. “Definitely.”

It’s a short performance, but the full effect of it finally comes across with the whole group dancing together - instead of the busker dancing his bit alone on a sidewalk, he pieces together a visual story with the rest of the group, trading off solo dance breaks each verse with the bartender, then transitioning seamlessly into a duet with the red-haired man. As soon as the two come together the song takes on a slower feel, the bartender and the girl standing back to let the crowd focus on the busker and his partner. The duet is quick and sensual, and Enjolras finds his gaze riveted to the way the two dancers move, all grace and elegance and long, lithe limbs. They wrap around each other in ways that have the crowd cheering - and, in some less pleasant cases, jeering - before the moment is over and they separate again. The busker’s gaze is fixed on his partner, which Enjolras supposes is only natural, but some small part of him can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have that attention focused on him.

The dance is over too soon, the ABC holding their final pose as the crowd screams applause before shouting a quick thank you and disappearing into a back hallway of the Corinthe. Enjolras is dimly aware of Courfeyrac trying to get his attention, but the wave of excitement has passed and he’s left feeling more tired than ever. He waves Courfeyrac off gently, lifting his hand in a vague gesture towards the bar, before stumbling off to drop down into the nearest seat available. The bartender is gone, probably still in the back with the rest of the dancers, but a short woman with wild, bushy hair hands him a water when he waves her over.

“Tired, sweetheart?” she asks, resting her hand on her chin and staring out across the sea of people on the dancefloor.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he shoots back, downing half of the water in one go. “Long day and all that.”

“Funny,” says a voice behind him. “I thought all you did was lecture street dancers all day.”

The bartender squeals and leans over the bar, narrowly avoiding Enjolras’ glass of water as she goes. He slides it safely off to the side, exhaling long and slow before turning around to face the busker.

The tight black tee has been exchanged for a green flannel, and the man’s dark curls covered by a worn out beanie, but his eyes are as bright and his smile as wide as is was when Enjolras first saw him earlier in the day. He pats the bartender gently on the back and takes the drink she offers him with a grin before turning his attention back to Enjolras.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “I thought ballerinas didn’t go clubbing.”

“We all have our vices,” Enjolras quips, and promptly chokes on his water when he tries to take a sip. The busker chuckles, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s my first time out, actually. A friend brought me.” Enjolras gestures vaguely into the crowd, where he can just barely make out Courfeyrac dancing with a taller man.

“Right, the other ballerina. Bit of a late night for you two, isn’t it? You’re usually at your studio way before I am, and I’m an early riser.”

Enjolras shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. “I’m not sticking around much longer, but Courf probably is. He’ll be late for rehearsal either way.”

“That’s your friend, right? I think Feuilly said they knew each other - that’s the other bartender, he was out there with us earlier.”

“Do you all know him? He seemed pretty friendly with the bouncer earlier, too.”

The busker shrugs. “I only met him today, but I think Eponine’s seen him around here before too, she’s a bit of a regular. And this one, of course,” he finishes, pointing to the bartender.

She sticks out her tongue at him, then flashes Enjolras a winning smile. “I’m Musichetta,” she chirps, “and he’s Grantaire, although he’ll probably never get around to introducing himself.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats, and the name rolls off his tongue like honey. “I’m Enjolras.”

Grantaire stands then, leaving his drink on the bar and extending a hand. “Well then, Enjolras, one more dance before you go?”

On any other night, Enjolras would shrug off the invitation and be on his way, but something in Grantaire’s hopeful expression tugs at him. It’s only one dance, after all, and Grantaire won’t be performing outside his studio anymore - what harm could it do? Enjolras takes his hand with a smile, and Grantaire’s crooked grin grows even wider.

The second Enjolras stands straight, though, he’s hit with a rush of dizziness. He stumbles, throwing out his free hand to grab the bar for support as blood rushes in his ears. Grantaire rushes forward to steady him, Musichetta running out from behind the bar to help prop him up.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks, blue eyes wide as he looks over Enjolras for any outward signs of illness.

“Just dizzy, sorry,” Enjolras manages to say past the waves of exhaustion rushing over him. “Just tired, I think, I’ll be fine if I -”

Before Enjolras can finish, his vision whites out, and he collapses to the ground in a heap.

-

When he comes around, Enjolras is vaguely aware of muffled music somewhere above his head, accompanied by the uncomfortable feeling of lying in a bed fully clothed. His eyelids are too heavy to open, but he manages to get his bearings as well as he can. The last thing he remembers is Grantaire asking him to dance, but the distinct lack of pounding bass and crowds of people suggests he isn’t passed out on the floor of the Corinthe like he expected to be.

He isn’t in his own bed, either, which is concerning. He needs to call Courfeyrac, make sure he didn’t leave with anyone the night before or accidentally stumble into one of his friends’ apartments - although he didn’t have all that much to drink, so he doubts he’d forget an entire night like that. Disoriented, he fumbles around for his phone, patting his pockets and the bedsheets around him to find it.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” says a girl, and Enjolras gathers the strength to open his eyes and squint around the room.

It’s dark, which is a bit confusing until he realizes the room has no windows, only an unplugged lamp in the corner and strings of fairy lights draped over every available surface. It looks a bit like a college dormitory, two sets of bunk beds resting along the opposite wall, plus the bed he’s currently in. Sitting on the lower bunk of the bed across from him is one of the dancers from the night before, the one girl in the group. Her hair isn’t pinned up anymore, from what Enjolras can see, instead falling over her shoulders in brown waves, and she’s wearing a spotted pair of pajamas. In the bunk above her is a teenage boy, hair wild and messy with sleep, face poking just over the edge of the bed to stare at Enjolras.

“Where am I?” asks Enjolras, once he’s regained his voice. He sits up, taking a better look around the room - the other beds seem to be empty, but a couple are unmade. “Where’s Grantaire?”

“Making breakfast, probably,” says the boy on the top bunk, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and kicking them in the air next to the girl’s head. She looks thoroughly unbothered by this, but swats halfheartedly at his feet anyway.

“You’re at the Corinthe,” the girl says. “Or, more specifically, you’re at the barricade.”

Enjolras cocks his head to the side. “The barricade?”

“Are you his boyfriend?” the boy asks excitedly. “Are you  _ her  _ boyfriend?”

“He’s not,” the girl snaps. “And get down, Gavroche, you have school today.”

“Can’t make me,” taunts the boy, but jumps down from the bed anyway, giving Enjolras a jaunty salute and disappearing through a door to the right.

“Sorry about that,” the girl says, standing up and straightening the sheets on her bed. “I’m Eponine, Grantaire’s friend. He brought you down here after you passed out last night, he couldn’t find your friend.”

Enjolras shakes his head and blinks, a habitual attempt to clear the haze of sleep from his head, but he feels surprisingly well-rested. There’s no sunlight to gauge the time by, but it’s likely late morning, and he’s probably missed morning rehearsal with Courfeyrac by more than a few hours, but he can’t really bring himself to care when he feels better than he has in weeks. “Where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

“The basement of the Corinthe,” Eponine explains. “We use it as a practice studio for our crew and a few of us crash here overnight every now and then. Best place to bring you, at least according to Grantaire. All your things are out in the kitchen, by the way, but I think your phone is dead.”

Enjolras groans. If it’s as late as he thinks he is, Courfeyrac probably thinks he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. He isn’t looking forward to the barrage of texts he’ll get once he turns his phone back on. Eponine gives him a sympathetic smile as she smoothes out her bedsheets and sets to making Gavroche’s.

“You should go see Grantaire, too,” she adds. “He seemed pretty worried last night.”

Enjolras supposes he’d be worried too, if a complete stranger passed out in front of him. He nods and gives Eponine a quick thanks before stumbling out through the same door Gavroche left through.

It’s not too hard to find Grantaire, Enjolras just follows the smell of food until he finds himself in a little kitchenette off the small hallway. Grantaire looks more at ease than Enjolras has ever seen him, a pair of sweats hanging dangerously low off his hips and a loose t-shirt emblazoned with some obscure reference Enjolras doesn’t recognize. He stands in front of the stove with his hip cocked, humming quietly to himself as he flips pancakes on a griddle.

“Eponine says I’ve got you to thank for saving my life last night,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire jumps at the sound of his voice.

“ _ Jesus, _ I didn’t see you there. Give a guy some warning next time, yeah?” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Enjolras says sheepishly, raising his hands in apology. “Is Gavroche in here?”

“Nah, he probably left without breakfast. Little brat thinks he doesn’t need food like the rest of us human beings. Pancake?” Grantaire brandishes a plate of pancakes in Enjolras’ general direction, and Enjolras’ mouth waters at the sight.

Still, he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t impose, you already brought me down here for the night, I’ll just get out of your hair as quick as I can.” He reaches for his keys and phone on the counter, checking his phone screen and sighing when he remembers his battery is dead.

“I made them for you, you dunce,” Grantaire laughs, the same husky chuckle from the night before, and Enjolras finds himself smiling despite his attempts to make a swift exit. “It would be rude to refuse, right?”

“Just take the pancakes,” Eponine calls from the hallway, and Grantaire laughs again.

Enjolras sighs and gives a small shrug, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, if  _ Eponine _ says I should.”

“That’s the spirit,” Grantaire laughs, setting the plate down at the little four-seat table in the corner and grabbing another serving off the counter for himself. “So, ballerina, not gonna pass out on me again, are you?”

Enjolras gives him a flat stare. “Ballerina, really?”

“What should I call you, then? Pavlova? Apollo?”

“ _ Apollo?” _

Grantaire shrugs. “You look like an Apollo,” he says by way of explanation. Enjolras snorts and takes a bite of his pancakes.

“You could always just call me by my name, you know,” he says.

“That’s no fun,” Grantaire says, “I think I’ll stick to Apollo.”

They eat in silence for a while, Enjolras glancing around at the kitchen furnishings while Grantaire stares steadfastly at his plate and Eponine bustles in and out. Every now and then, she stops to ruffle Grantaire’s hair or poke his cheek, and eventually kisses the top of his head and announces she’s going upstairs to start her bartending shift.

“Do you all work here?” Enjolras asks around a mouthful of pancake.

“Most of us do. Mabeuf owns the place, he lets us use the barricade at a lower rent rate since most of us work for him anyway. He’s a good guy, if a little blind to running a business.”

“Why do you all call it the barricade, anyway?”

Grantaire grins and sets down his fork with a clink. “Do you want to see?”

Enjolras follows Grantaire down the rest of the small hallway, passing doors to a bathroom and another small bedroom before the hall opens into an enormous dance studio. It’s nearly the full size of the Corinthe, dance mirrors against two of the walls and a large mural painted on a third. Against the far wall is what looks like a painting at first, but once Grantaire tugs Enjolras into the center of the room, he realizes what the far wall really is.

Stacks of speakers, all different sizes and brands, are piled together to make an enormous sound system the size of the entire wall. Enjolras gapes, staring at the makeshift construction - speakers that are relatively ancient sit atop shiny, new, expensive bass systems, a control center in the middle of the wall roughly at eye level.

“Welcome to the barricade,” Grantaire says, spreading his arms wide. “Central hub and dance studio of the ABC dance crew, humble abode of yours truly.”

“You  _ live  _ here?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I eat, sleep, and breathe dance, might as well live it too.”

It’s a sentiment Enjolras is far too familiar with. If he could spend his nights at the studio he would, but it’s all he can do to pull himself away when the doors close at night. He envies Grantaire, just a bit, for being able to immerse himself in his dance so easily.

“You’re always welcome, you know,” Grantaire says quietly. “To dance with us, or to watch us practice.”

“That’s really nice of you, but I -“ Enjolras breaks off, hit with a fresh wave of stress over the upcoming showcase. He should be at the studio rehearsing right now, not hovering around some other dancer’s studio and staying for breakfast with people he only just met, regardless of how nice or charming they might be. “I really should be going, I have to get back to the studio. Courfeyrac will be worried.” Enjolras forces himself not to notice the way Grantaire’s face falls at that. He doesn’t have time for this, whatever it is, and he doesn’t have space in his life to fit Grantaire and his motley crew of street dancers in alongside his professional dance career. One night out was enough, he tells himself, and now it’s over, and he needs to return to the real world.

“Right,” Grantaire says, plastering on a grin that’s painfully fake next to the genuine smiles Enjolras had seen over breakfast. “I’ll show you out, then?”

Enjolras nods, giving the barricade one last glance before following Grantaire back up the stairs to the Corinthe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i made the mistake of starting a fic right before nanowrimo, and got so caught up in writing my nanowrimo project that i nearly forgot about this - but here it is! i hope you all like reading it as much as i liked writing it!

 

“So, you’re friends with the ballerina now?” Eponine asks after the Corinthe door swings shut behind Enjolras. She raises her eyebrows disapprovingly, keeping eye contact as she wipes down the counter. “Didn’t think you hung around that type anymore.”

Grantaire sighs. “We’re not  _ friends,” _ he protests as he lowers himself into a barstool. “He’s a dancer, that’s all. I offered to let him practice at the barricade every now and then if he wants to.”

Eponine pauses, eyebrows climbing higher by the second. “You know you can’t follow through on that.”

“Why not? We’ve got a few months before the old man sells, why can’t he come in every now and then?”

“Are you really going to offer him a studio and then snatch it away a few months later? He’s a ballerina, Grantaire, you of all people should know he values his rehearsal time. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Grantaire slumps over, forehead thumping dully against the metal counter. When he looks up, Eponine sighs and purses her lips. 

“We don’t even know how much longer we’ll be able to keep the basement for ourselves. We don’t know who the bar is going to, or if it’ll even  _ stay _ a bar. We need to be focusing on finding new practice space, not getting chummy with pretty ballerinas that don’t even leave their numbers the morning after.” Eponine punctuates her last words with a soft slap against the counter. Grantaire sighs.

“You’d think Mabeuf would at least sell the Corinthe to one of us. We practically run the place already.”

“Sure,” Eponine says dryly, “And what money can we buy it with? We’ve barely got enough to cover basement rent and groceries, half of us have side jobs just to make ends meet. We can’t pull together enough cash to buy out the Corinthe in a year, much less in three months.” With that, she turns to sort bottles, effectively ending the conversation. Grantaire doesn’t particularly want to drag out the topic any more than he already has, so he simply pushes his barstool away from the counter and heads for the stairs again.

“Jehan is coming in a bit to work the solos for the next competition,” he tosses back over his shoulder. “Come down and join us if you have time, yeah?” 

Eponine replies with a dismissive wave, and Grantaire nods to himself before returning to the barricade.

\- 

The plates are still on the table after breakfast, Enjolras’ pancakes half-eaten on his and syrup dripping down to the table next to Grantaire’s. Grantaire takes a moment to soak them in the sink, wiping off the table distractedly as he mentally sorts through the events of the previous day. 

Sure, Enjolras had seemed the same as every haughty ballerina Grantaire had ever met when he first came to run Grantaire off the street corner, but he had come off as considerably more apologetic when they met at the Corinthe. Sure, he had clearly felt incredibly out of place in the club, but he had watched Grantaire’s performance and applauded just as much as the rest of the audience, despite having chided the same performance not twelve hours earlier. Not only that, but the two of them had actually had a civil conversation afterwards, joking and laughing like any other two perfectly friendly acquaintances at a club.

And they had almost  _ danced. _ Grantaire had mentally kicked himself for asking in the few seconds before Enjolras accepted - and then fainted - but Grantaire is willing to bet good money on Enjolras being an incredible dancer. Absently, he wonders if the other man Grantaire was with - Courfeyrac? - had danced with him, and if that was something that happened often. They seemed close, Grantaire thinks, then immediately shuts down that train of thought.  If Eponine says he shouldn’t even befriend Enjolras, he figures actually pursuing him would be a nightmare - not to mention the fact that he’s a  _ ballerina. _ Grantaire has had enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much.

The sound of the door to the barricade closing jolts Grantaire out of his headspace, and he quickly finishes tidying the kitchen. 

“Be out in a sec, Jehan,” he calls, figuring Jehan will just get started without him. There’s an uncomfortable-sounding cough from the studio, though, and a voice that’s very distinctly  _ not  _ Jehan replies.

“Uh - Eponine said I could come down here?”

Grantaire dries his hands and peeks out into the studio to see the man from the night before standing in the center of the room, hands in his pockets, looking distinctly out of place in a button-up and bowtie among the concrete walls and stacks of stereos. There’s a dusting of glitter under his left eye that looks distinctly accidental, like he hadn’t quite gotten it all off the night before.

“Courfeyrac, right?” Grantaire asks, stepping into the studio and holding out a hand to shake. “I met you yesterday, I think, at your studio.”

“Right - sorry about that,” Courfeyrac replies, shaking Grantaire’s hand firmly. “Enjolras gets a bit defensive when it comes to rehearsals.”

“Speaking of which, I think you just missed him, if that’s what you came for.” Grantaire settles back into his slouch, but Courfeyrac doesn’t seem any more at ease than when he came in.

“Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “I came to see you. I tried talking to Bahorel, but he said I should ask you, since you’re kind of the ringleader around here.”

Grantaire tries not to laugh. He may be the ABC’s frontman, but he can’t imagine anyone in the crew actually listening to him, especially not Bahorel or Eponine. Still, he nods solemnly, cocking his head in a silent invitation for Courfeyrac to continue.

“See, I love working with Enjolras,” Courfeyrac goes on, “but ballet really isn’t my thing. I was classically trained, sure, and I started working with Enjolras as a favor when his last partner bailed on him, but the upcoming showcase has me rethinking this. If I go through with it, my place as a ballerina is pretty much cemented, but - I just don’t want that.”

“So, you want to join us?” Grantaire asks, unsure if he’s reading the situation right.

“I wanted to ask if you had an opening, or if you could at least just teach me a few things about your type of dance.” Courfeyrac looks sheepish, like he isn’t sure whether or not he’s allowed to ask for anything from Grantaire - although Grantaire doesn’t blame him, depending on his experience in professional ballet, he might actually be hesitant to ask for favors from fellow dancers. That’s a feeling Grantaire knows all too well.

“Street dance is miles away from the kind of dance you’re used to,” Grantaire starts, and Courfeyrac’s expression starts to crumple until he adds on, “but you’re always welcome with us, if you’re willing to put in the work. We’re about to start new choreography for our next competition set, actually, if you want to wait around and sit in for that.”

Courfeyrac positively beams at that, looking genuinely happy for the first time since coming in. Grantaire grins back at him, clapping an arm around his shoulder. “I’ll show you around the place if you want, but I have to warn you, we might be moving out soon so I doubt you’ll have much time to get comfortable here.”

“Moving out?”

Grantaire grimaces. “Old man Mabeuf is selling the Corinthe, we won’t be able to stay here unless we can either convince the new owner to rent out the basement for dirt cheap or we buy the place ourselves - which we don’t have enough money for.”

Courfeyrac stops in his tracks, staring bug-eyed at Grantaire, before lighting up all over again. “I have something that might help,” he whispers, then repeats himself louder before rushing back to the stairs. “I’ll be back this afternoon,” he calls over his shoulder, breezing out the door in a whirlwind of excitement, passing Jehan as he makes his way down to the barricade. He’s gone as quickly as he came, leaving Grantaire standing stock-still in the center of the studio and Jehan staring out at the dance floor of the Corinthe after him.

“Who was that?” asks Jehan, once the two of them have gotten over the sudden shock.

“New dancer,” replies Grantaire distractedly, leveling a blank stare at the door swinging shut behind Courfeyrac. “I think he might be able to help us keep the studio.”

Jehan whistles, low and long. “I  _ like _ him.”

-

Courfeyrac returns two hours later, stack of papers in hand, barreling into the barricade just as Jehan and Grantaire finish another run-through of their routine. Ignoring the music and Eponine’s shrill voice from the upstairs hallway, he runs down the stairs and makes a beeline for Grantaire, slapping one paper against Grantaire’s chest and holding another out behind him for Jehan. He’s out of breath, panting as if he had run all the way to the Corinthe - and with the way he had left, Grantaire wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

“Found you some money,” he pants, doubling over with his hands on his knees, then does an abrupt double-take when Jehan sidles into his field of view. “Hel _ lo,” _ he drawls out breathlessly, a sly grin working its way onto his face. “Didn’t I see you last night?”

Jehan flushes a marvelous shade of pink and squeaks out a reply, but his words are lost in the rush of white noise filling Grantaire’s head as he finally reads over the flyer Courfeyrac had handed him. For a long moment, he does his best impression of a beached fish, flapping his mouth open and shut soundlessly before he regains enough presence of mind to swat a hand frantically in Jehan’s general direction. He makes an attempt to form words, but his brain can’t quite process anything past  _ seven figures  _ and  _ save the studio, _ but Jehan saves him the trouble once he stops mooning over Courfeyrac and looks at his own flyer.

“One  _ million?”  _ he shrieks, clapping a thin hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder to keep from collapsing. His eyes are wide, gaze darting between Grantaire and Courfeyrac at the speed of light, and Grantaire’s sure his expression is a carbon copy of Jehan’s at this point. “Jesus, R, this changes  _ everything.  _ We need to call the crew in.”

With that, Jehan grabs Courfeyrac by this wrist and bodily drags him up the staircase towards the main floor of the Corinthe, shouting for Eponine as he goes. As the sound of his voice fades into the general noise of the upper floor, Grantaire allows himself a closer look at the flyer, one hand over his mouth and the other hand shaking enough that the words on the paper are nearly unreadable.

_ A prize of One Million Dollars,  _ the flyer advertises,  _ to the winner of the World Jam Street Dance Competition - New Years’ Eve, Los Angeles, California. _

Below that is a list of times and addresses, and a note about where to find information regarding sign-ups and registration. Grantaire reads the top line two more times, the phrase  _ One Million Dollars _ swimming behind his eyes like a mirage. Winning that grand prize would mean more than just keeping their makeshift studio - they could buy out the Corinthe itself and run business through the bar, they could split it between them and none of them would have to work for a year, Grantaire could afford an apartment of his own, Eponine could finally hire a lawyer to fight for custody of Gavroche - Grantaire can hardly keep himself upright after reading through the flyer one last time.

Somewhere above his head, Eponine shouts a colorful expletive, and Grantaire folds the flyer and sticks it into his back pocket with a breathless, amazed laugh.

-

It’s not surprising how quickly the crew gathers at the barricade, considering two-thirds of them are at work in the same building and the remaining members share an apartment less than two blocks away. Within half an hour, the lot of them are piled onto beanbags and cushions spread over the floor of the barricade, staring in earnest at Grantaire, Jehan, and Courfeyrac.

“Is there something wrong?” Joly pipes up, from somewhere in the middle of the beanbag-Musichetta-Bossuet nest he’s formed for himself. 

“Is this about Mabeuf?” asks Bahorel, then immediately follows with, “is this about your  _ boyfriend?” _

Grantaire sighs. “No, yes, no, and he’s not my boyfriend. In that order.”

“We think we might have found,” Jehan starts, breaking off to clear his throat. “ _ Courfeyrac _ might have found a way for us to keep the barricade and buy out the Corinthe when Mabeuf sells it.” He hands off his crumpled copy of the flyer to Grantaire, who pulls his own out of his back pocket and passes both around the rest of the crew. There’s a chorus of hushed gasps and exclamatory noises as each member reads over the flyers, and a quick glance sideways shows Courfeyrac looking equal parts proud and emotional.

“This is  _ three months away, _ though,” Feuilly cuts in from his place in the corner. “Can we get up something World Jam-worthy in that little time?”

“We’ve made national competitions before,” Jehan says, “and we have a new member with experience in a different type of dance. All we need is a unique routine.”

“I can cover that,” says Eponine, raising a hand. “Courfeyrac, mind sticking around to talk about your dancing skills after?”

Courfeyrac nods, and Jehan hums pleasantly before continuing. “Not to mention we already have most of a solid routine, and this is in  _ Los Angeles. _ Don’t tell me none of you have ever wanted to go to Los Angeles.”

“This is just the final, though,” Musichetta says. “Aren’t there preliminary competitions? To weed out the amateur groups?”

“No, but there is a video audition,” Courfeyrac replies. “We have until the end of November to put together an audition tape and send it in - we can do that, right?”

Grantaire nods in assent, and the rest of the crew nods along with him. 

“That’s settled then,” says Eponine, clapping her hands. “Courfeyrac, Grantaire, you two stick around to talk choreo, the rest of you can go back to whatever you were doing before we were set to win a million dollars.”

The crew cheers, a few members leaning off their beanbags to hug each other, and Eponine stands up and motions for Courfeyrac and Grantaire to follow her into the back rooms.

-

Courfeyrac hangs around the barricade for the better part of the night, only leaving after midnight, when most of the crew has either left or gone to sleep, and Grantaire is the only one left awake. He’s nursing a cup of badly brewed coffee in the kitchen and going over the choreography sheets Eponine had handed him before trudging back to the bedroom to sleep when a timid tap from the direction of the barricade jolts him out of his thoughts. He’s not quite sure what the sound is, until there’s a slightly more determined knock at the door to the upper floor. Groaning, Grantaire gathers the choreography sheets back into a messy pile and abandons his coffee before shuffling into the main room to answer the door - presumably for Courfeyrac, no one else would be polite enough to knock seeing as they all practically live here anyway.

It’s not Courfeyrac, though, when Grantaire opens the door, and he finds himself suddenly very thankful he left his coffee in the kitchen, because he most likely would have choked on it had he been drinking.

“Can I come in?” Enjolras asks, dressed in a pair of well-worn pajamas with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I know it’s late, I won’t be loud.”

Grantaire claims sleep deprivation and shock for his reasoning behind letting Enjolras through into the barricade. “Not to be nosy,” he says as the two of them descend the stairs, “but how did you get in here dressed like that?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Bahorel let me in through the back.”

“Ah,” Grantaire replies, nodding. The back entrance, unlike the front and the employees’ side door, opens directly into the hallway to the basement; Grantaire doubts anyone would have seen Enjolras aside from the odd stray drunkard being kicked out. Grantaire tries to tamp down the odd emotion bubbling up in his chest at the thought of Enjolras using the back entrance like one of the crew.  _ He’s a ballerina,  _ a voice reminds him, sounding uncomfortably like an irritated Eponine.  _ He’s not your friend.  _ Grantaire shakes his head. “Why are you here, anyway? It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep, came to see if anyone was awake to let me in. If your offer to practice here still stands, of course.” 

“Only if you don’t mind me hanging around while I go over choreography, Eponine has us all running in circles while she tries to fit in a new dancer.” Grantaire realizes what he’s given away a moment too late, and bites the inside of his cheek, hoping Enjolras doesn’t take out any pent-up anger on him.

Enjolras’ face darkens. “Courfeyrac, right?” Grantaire gives a stiff nod, and Enjolras sighs, raising one hand to rub tight circles into his temples. “I knew he’d leave sooner or later, I don’t blame him. I’ve been told I’m a nightmare to work with.”

A sudden vision of Enjolras verbally attacking Grantaire for performing outside his studio flashes through Grantaire’s head, and he breathes a quiet laugh. “I can believe that. Still, I’m sorry you’re down a partner.”

“I’ve got a couple months,” Enjolras shoots back with a sardonic smile. “I’ll figure something out. Do you have somewhere I can change?”

Grantaire points him towards the bathroom, watching Enjolras’ retreating figure as he heads towards the back hallway. As soon as Enjolras is out of sight, Grantaire sinks into one of the stray beanbags scattered across the dance floor, dropping his head into his hands with a low groan. He can’t get  _ attached, _ he tells himself. Not now, with the pressure of the competition hanging over him and Enjolras’ own stress over the showcase - it’s a recipe for disaster, or at least a broken heart. Besides, Enjolras is probably nothing more than a prissy ballerina with a penchant for ruining his sleep schedule and an unhealthy attachment to his rehearsal routine.

Still, his breath catches for a moment when Enjolras returns in his practice gear, hair tied back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck and bright, excited eyes despite being awake in the middle of the night. It takes all of Grantaire’s willpower to slip off unnoticed when Enjolras plugs his music into the speaker wall, even if he does take a moment to admire the sight of Enjolras stretching out before he retreats into the kitchen.

The sound of Enjolras’ music follows him down the short hallway, something light and classical and unfairly fitting for Enjolras, even Grantaire can tell after knowing the man for less than 48 hours. It’s enough to lull him into a doze at the kitchen table, ink swimming in and out of focus as he tries to read over Eponine’s pages of choreography. By the time he jerks awake, a puddle of drool pooling uncomfortably between his cheek and the wood of the table, the stovetop clock reads 3:24 and Enjolras’ music is still trailing softly into the kitchen.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Grantaire stands up and shuffles out of the hallway, one hand on the wall next to him for support.

“Enjolras, I swear if you’re still out here dancing-” he starts, but stops dead when the dance floor comes into view.

Music is still playing faintly from the speaker wall, but it’s clear that the track has been on repeat for some time. Enjolras, pointe shoes still on and hair still tied up in a messy bun, is curled up on one of the stray beanbags left over from the crew’s earlier meeting, curled in on himself and shivering slightly. For once, he looks completely at ease, brow unfurrowed and hands soft and open under his cheek. Exhaling a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding, Grantaire pads over to the speaker wall to switch off the music, switching off the overhead lights as he goes. The room dims instantly, the only light left coming from the crack under the hallway door and streaming into the room from the back hallway. It washes over Enjolras’ sleeping figure in a soft triangle, casting a hazy golden glow over his halo of hair and the hollows of his cheeks. 

With Enjolras’ music off, the only sound in the room is the whir of the heating system and the dull, muffled bass from the upper floor, barely discernible through the room’s soundproofing. Still, Enjolras furrows his eyebrows in confusion when Grantaire shakes him awake with one hand on his shoulder. 

“Where’m I?” he slurs, blinking hazily and glancing around.

“You’re at the Corinthe,” Grantaire whispers back with a small smile. “And you need sleep in an actual bed, come on.”

Enjolras nods and forces himself upright, although Grantaire is slightly convinced that Enjolras didn’t completely process his words. Still, Enjolras allows Grantaire to guide him down the back hallway towards the bedrooms, only giving small noises of complaint when the hallway light hits his half-open eyes. Once Enjolras is safely tucked into one of the bunks in the main bedroom, Grantaire shuffles back down the hallway towards his own room.

Originally, he had stayed in the bunks with the rest of the crew, back when the lot of them had all lived together at the Corinthe. His single bedroom was a triple dorm, shared by Joly and Musichetta, then later Bossuet once the three of them finally got their collective act together. When they moved into an apartment of their own though, followed by the slow trickle of the rest of the members finding housing of their own, the room was left vacated, and with Grantaire, Eponine and Gavroche the only members who used the dormitories with any sort of frequency, it became an unspoken rule that they would split the two rooms between them.

Now, Grantaire’s room has a single bunk in it, two smaller beds shoved together to form a double and pushed into the corner, and the concrete walls are covered in a combination of taped up sketches, painted pieces, and sharpie notes left by his friends. It’s like a home, almost, and Grantaire wouldn’t have it any other way. He loves his barricade, and it loves him in return.

Grantaire falls back onto his bed with a sigh. Above him, he can hear the quiet hum of club music, bass pounding heavy through the walls and into his bones. He thinks of Enjolras, of their eyes meeting for the second time in the Corinthe, of the vulnerable look in Enjolras’ eyes when he brushed off the worry of losing his dance partner mere months before his showcase.

He can’t get attached, he tells himself, but being friends isn’t such a bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, kudos, you know what i'm going to say. on tumblr at [wylans](http://wylans.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [michael mell voice] combeferre makes an entrance!

For the second time in as many days, Enjolras wakes up to the sight of Eponine staring at him from across the room. Like the morning before, he’s disoriented by the darkness, shaking his head a bit to clear it once he realizes where he is. Gavroche seems to be gone, and Eponine has already set to work making his bed and smoothing out her own sheets.

“You came back, then?” she asks, once Enjolras waves an awkward, stilted good morning. He’s not used to waking up to anyone other than Courfeyrac or Combeferre, whenever one of his only two friends takes it upon themselves to make sure he hasn’t keeled over from overwork during the night - it’s a shock to find Eponine in the same building as him, much less in the same room and talking to him like a civil human being before he’s even had his morning coffee. “Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

Eponine turns back to Gavroche’s bunk, fluffing his pillows and patting down a crease in the blankets before she replies. “You’re not good for him, whatever the two of you might think.”

Enjolras scoffs, taken aback. He’s known Grantaire for a grand total of forty-eight hours, during which he not only ran him off the street corner he was performing on, but also passed out on him in the middle of a nightclub and imposed on his hospitality for two nights in a row. He has a hard time believing Grantaire even  _ tolerates _ him at this point, much less likes him in any way, romantically included. Enjolras is fairly sure he wouldn’t even tolerate himself at this point. “It’s not like that-” he starts, but Eponine bats a hand in his direction to cut him off.

“That’s not what I meant, but don’t get any ideas about that either,” she says. “Grantaire just has a hard enough time focusing on what’s good for him without getting back into what’s bad for him.”

“What does that mean?”

Eponine opens her mouth to reply, but before she can form words, the door bangs open and Gavroche bounds in, smile as wide as the ocean on his face and a half-eaten apple in his hand. Eponine makes an indignant noise, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she manages to choke out, “why aren’t you at school?”

“Forgot my books,” Gavroche replies cheekily, blowing a kiss to Eponine and grabbing a stack of notebooks off the floor before breezing out the door again. Eponine lets out a percussive sigh.

“I swear, that kid will be the death of me,” she groans, sinking backwards onto her freshly made bed. From outside the room, the sounds of Gavroche raiding the kitchen for a second breakfast, followed by a few unintelligible shouts from Grantaire, float into the room through the open doorway.

Enjolras wants to ask why Gavroche stays with her, why the two of them apparently live in the repurposed basement of a nightclub instead of in a proper house or apartment like he does, but he has a nagging feeling that it isn’t the sort of thing to ask someone you’ve known for a day at most. Instead, he settles on a noncommittal hum, nodding polite acknowledgement to Eponine before making his escape out of the bedroom to shower and brush his teeth.

-

Enjolras hears voices as soon as he shuts off the water, steam swirling thick in the tiny bathroom. The sound is muffled through the door and a couple concrete walls, but he can tell it’s Eponine and Grantaire, arguing about something judging by the shrill tone of Eponine’s voice.

It’s not normally in Enjolras’ moral code to eavesdrop on conversations, but his own name catches his ears as he opens the bathroom door, and he finds himself unable to move from the doorway as the conversation continues.

“- not like anyone’s asking you to stay away from Parnasse and the rest of them, as long as it doesn’t conflict with us,” Grantaire huffs out, clearly annoyed.

“That’s different, and you know it is. They were always good to me. Do you think any of them will be good to you, if they knew?”

“Enjolras would.”

“You don’t know that.” Enjolras can picture Eponine’s stance as she says it, too, the way her arms would be crossed severely across her chest and her chin would jut out impudently despite her short stature.

“I know him.”

Eponine scoffs, barely audible from Enjolras’ place further down the hallway. “You haven’t even known him a week.”

There’s a period of silence, heavy and thick in the air, tangible even ten feet down the hall and out of sight of Eponine and Grantaire in the kitchen. Enjolras is about to turn and leave, grab his bag and thank Grantaire for letting him crash at the barricade for another night before absconding to lock himself in his studio, but a muffled reply from Grantaire stops him in his tracks.

“- help out,” Enjolras manages to make out, the tail end of whatever Grantaire had been saying. “I could do it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I could. If he can’t find anyone.”

Another pregnant pause fills the room, before Eponine sighs loud enough for Enjolras to clearly hear. “It’s your funeral,” she says, in a tone of finality that Grantaire apparently can’t argue with. Enjolras waits a few moments for a response, but upon getting none, he turns back to the room to gather up his things.

-

Grantaire foils Enjolras’ escape plan right off the bat with an offering of coffee and pancakes that Enjolras can’t quite resist. Eponine seems to have made herself scarce, which he’s silently thankful for - he isn’t sure he could have dealt with the awkward aftermath of a conversation that was clearly about him. Instead, he digs into his breakfast with a fervor that makes Grantaire chuckle into his own cup of coffee.

“Slow down, Apollo,” he laughs, “you’ll choke yourself.”

“Didn’t have dinner,” Enjolras shoots back between bites. Then, after a moment of consideration, he tacks on, “Plus, these are excellent pancakes.”

The cheeky remark is worth it for the way the tips of Grantaire’s ears go pink at the words. He chokes on the sip of coffee he’s just taken, coughing and thumping his chest with a caged smile on his face, before clearing his throat and regaining his composure. Enjolras fights down the childish laugh bubbling at his chest at being able to joke with Grantaire so easily, like two old friends instead of near-strangers tossed together by circumstance.

“Eponine doesn’t like me very much, does she?” Enjolras asks, before his brain has quite caught up to his mouth. Once he realizes what he’s said, though, he bites his tongue in regret almost immediately. Grantaire seems to stop short at the question, mug half-raised and eyebrows climbing ever higher.

“What gave you that idea?” he shoots back, once he’s processed Enjolras’ words. “She likes you fine.”

Enjolras shrugs, taking a bite of his pancakes as an excuse to put off his answer. “She told me I wasn’t good for you.”

Grantaire goes even redder, if possible, bringing his mug up to hide as much of his face as he can and averting his gaze off to the side. Enjolras gets the feeling he’s inadvertently brought on a very awkward conversation for nine in the morning, despite his attempts to make a clean, quiet escape. Before he can apologize or take back his words, however, Grantaire just shakes his head. “She just doesn’t like ballerinas. Or most professional dancers, really.”

It’s not the answer Enjolras expected, and he cocks his head to the side in confusion. “Why not? She’s practically a professional dancer herself, isn’t she?” 

Grantaire sighs and cracks a small smile, standing up to gather the empty dishes from the table. He makes a display of taking them to the sink, not speaking again until he’s standing in front of the sink, washing up and facing squarely away from Enjolras.

“We all came from somewhere,” he starts, pausing until Enjolras makes an affirming  _ hm _ to prod him on. “Eponine danced jazz as a child, then salsa when she began performing professionally. Feuilly and Jehan did Irish folk. A few of us started with hip-hop, but it’s not very common in our community.”

“Where did you come from, then?” Enjolras asks, after a heavy pause. Grantaire shakes his head.

“Somewhere that wasn’t very good to people like me,” he answers. “And Eponine tries to keep me from falling back into it. As much as she can, anyway.”

It’s a vague statement, one that begs Enjolras to press further, but the defeated slump of Grantaire’s shoulders warns him off it. Instead, he does his best to change the topic, gathering up his empty plate and coffee mug and taking them to Grantaire at the sink. “Ballet isn’t bad, though,” he says. “A bit stuffy, but not bad.”

“For someone like you, I doubt any dance is bad.” Grantaire refuses to look Enjolras in the eye, even once they’re standing side by side at the counter. Enjolras holds back a sigh, settling for prying the sponge out of Grantaire’s hand so he can wash up the rest on his own.

“What?” he asks, once Grantaire has given up control of the kitchen sink.

“You’re the poster boy for dancers,” Grantaire explains. “Tall, fit, pretty. I bet any company would be fighting to have you on their side. It’s not as easy for the rest of us.”

Enjolras balks at that statement on instinct, even if he does know there’s truth to it. He and Courfeyrac haven’t gotten as far as they have on looks alone, but he knows it’s helped; he’s seen the less fit, less lean, less pretty dancers get turned away even when they have more than enough talent for the job. Not that Grantaire is unattractive, he amends - quite the opposite, if he can admit it to himself - but Enjolras doubts any classical dance company, ballet or otherwise, would see it quite that way.

“You still haven’t told me what you used to do,” he says, a rather shoddy attempt to steer the conversation back to more comfortable territory.

“I used to be you,” replies Grantaire, with a defeated shrug. “At the same studio, actually, that’s how I knew it was a good place to perform.”

“You were a  _ ballerina?” _ Enjolras is taken aback, stopped in his tracks. Suddenly, his conversation with Eponine earlier that morning runs through his head in a different light, and he wants to kick himself for being so insensitive. “And you quit because of the pressure?”

“I wouldn’t say I quit,” Grantaire replies, laughing morbidly. “It broke me, and finding the ABC put me back together, that’s all there is to it.”

Enjolras can’t argue with that, not without putting himself at even more risk of saying something out of line. Instead he nods stiffly, wiping his damp hands on his jeans and gathering up his things to leave. Grantaire shows him out with none of the previous stilted awkwardness between them, but there’s a flash of something Enjolras can’t quite place in his eyes when they say their goodbyes at the door.

“You’ll come back to practice?” Grantaire asks, just as Enjolras is about to let the door swing shut behind him.

At that, Enjolras smiles, a small crinkle in the corner of his eyes meant only for Grantaire. “Of course, if you’ll have me,” he says, tearing his gaze away from Grantaire’s piercing blue eyes and turning back to the main floor of the Corinthe.

-

“I don’t know why you can’t just put up an advertisement at the studio,” Courfeyrac says four days later, a half-eaten plate of pasta sitting in front of him. He’s taking Enjolras out for lunch, an olive branch extended after the whole ballet debacle, Courfeyrac’s way of apologizing for walking out on him so close to the showcase. Enjolras still finds it a bit hard to forgive him, considering Courfeyrac had just up and left without so much as a word until he had gone and joined the ABC - but Enjolras doesn’t begrudge him his reasoning. After all, he’s not one to ask someone to stay on a career path they’re unhappy with, no matter how suited for it they might be, whether it’s Courfeyrac or Grantaire or anyone else.

“I did, but there’s no one I’d be comfortable dancing with who isn’t already partnered off,” Enjolras sighs. Cosette was the first one he had gone too, since he knew she would take the rather intimate routine he had choreographed in stride, without being awkward or stilted about it, but she had already taken up with Marius a few months before, and Enjolras wasn’t about to ask her to take on two routines so close to the showcase.

“Combeferre?”

“He’s taking the company offer, he won’t be in the showcase.”

Courfeyrac groans. Neither of them are unhappy about Combeferre leaving for a job offer, he deserves it as much as any of them and both Enjolras and Courfeyrac know that - but he’s leaving nonetheless. It’ll be difficult for the three of them to be separated, especially after being attached at the hip since childhood. “We need to do something for him before he leaves.”

Enjolras gives him an emphatic nod, using Courfeyrac’s momentary distraction to steal a bite of pasta off his plate. “Let me know if you think of something,” he manages to say, before the two of them dissolve into laughter as Courfeyrac makes exaggerated swipes at Enjolras’ fork. They’re getting odd looks from the other diners at the restaurant, but Enjolras can’t quite care. The haze of disappointment seems to have lifted, and he feels just as normal and happy with Courfeyrac as before he had lost his dance partner - that’s certainly worth a few weird looks, in his opinion.

“Did you know Grantaire was a ballerina?” he asks, once the laughter has died away and Courfeyrac has pulled his food closer to him in a misguided act of protection. 

“What?” Courfeyrac gapes at him. “Was he really?”

“A while ago, apparently. He told me last time I saw him, after Eponine gave me an early morning shovel talk.”

“Why were you there, anyway? You should have told me if you’d gone clubbing, I’d have come with you.”

Enjolras stops in his tracks at that, sifting through his memories in an attempt to remember if he’d ever explained the whole barricade situation to Courfeyrac. Grantaire could have mentioned it to him, of course, but Enjolras doubts that. “I might have been spending a bit of time at the barricade,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as nonchalantly as he can. Courfeyrac clearly sees right through him.

“First thing in the morning?”

“I...might have spent the night,” Enjolras admits, feeling his cheeks flush what must be a marvelous shade of red. “A couple times.”

“I  _ knew _ it!” Courfeyrac crows, slapping one hand definitively onto the table in a gesture that draws the attention of half the restaurant. “You’re  _ sleeping _ with him, aren’t you?”

Enjolras chokes, resisting the  _ very strong _ urge to reach across the table and clap both hands over Courfeyrac’s mouth. “Would you _ keep your voice down?”  _ he hisses, gaze darting around at the nearby diners clearly trying to look like they aren’t blatantly eavesdropping. “It’s not like that, okay, he told me I could practice there from time to time.”

“And you took him up on it?” Courfeyrac is positively  _ sparkling  _ at his unearthing of an apparently very scandalous secret of Enjolras’.

“Just the once,” Enjolras sighs. “His roommate doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“Who, Eponine?” asks Courfeyrac. Enjolras had almost forgotten that Courfeyrac is now not only on first-name basis with the ABC, but is actually one of them himself. “She’s nice enough, even if she can be a little intense, and she wouldn’t dislike you after only knowing you a few days. Feel free to sweep him off his feet, or whatever it is you two do all alone in there at night.”

Enjolras fights off a fresh blush, glaring at Courfeyrac. “First of all,” he says, “you know as well as I do that we aren’t  _ alone, _ Eponine and her little brother are there every night.”

“Technicalities,” says Courfeyrac, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“ _ Second,” _ Enjolras continues over Courfeyrac’s interruption, “She’s right. If Grantaire was a ballerina and he left because the industry treated him badly, I won’t be doing him any favors by hanging around like a painful reminder all the time.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding him?”

“I’m not avoiding him.”

“Answer the question.”

Enjolras sighs and nods his head, dropping his gaze to his lap. At this, Courfeyrac sits back, steepling his fingers in front of his nose, eyes narrowed in quiet calculation.

“Tell you what,” he says, after a long period of silence. “I’ve got practice in a couple hours, why don’t I  _ casually _ drop your name and see how he reacts. Gather some data of my own.”

Enjolras groans and rubs his temples. “Please don’t.”

“Too late, it’s set,” Courfeyrac crows. “You’ll have to show up yourself to stop me if you want.”

With that said, he turns back to the remainder of his pasta, digging in wolfishly and shooting Enjolras a cheeky smile between every few bites.

-

Five hours later, Enjolras has twenty-seven unread messages from Courfeyrac that he stalwartly refuses to open. He doesn’t want to hear all about how uncomfortable Grantaire is at the mention of his name, or how glad or disappointed or indifferent he is now that Enjolras has started avoiding him. It’s not like Enjolras  _ cares _ what Grantaire thinks of him, really, it’s more that it’s an unnecessary distraction while he has so much more going on. Instead of checking his phone after it beeps for the twenty-eighth time, he turns the studio speaker system up just a bit more, falling back into his routine with a practiced ease and refusing to think about Courfeyrac or Grantaire or anything that’s happened in the past three days.

He’s so invested in his practice that he almost misses the knock on the studio door, only realizing the interruption when the timid knock becomes a heavier thump and an infuriatingly patient, “Enjolras?”

Enjolras scrambles to shut off the music once he registers Combeferre’s presence, wiping the sweat from his hairline and throwing open the studio door to reveal his best friend, tall and smiling and carrying -  _ thank god  _ \- two cups of coffee. He hands one to Enjolras, enveloping him in a one-armed hug once his hand is free despite how sweaty and gross Enjolras is sure he must be.

“Courfeyrac says to check your phone,” he says by way of greeting, dropping his bag in the corner and leaning back against the barre. 

“Courfeyrac needs to mind his own business,” Enjolras shoots back, setting down his coffee so he can stretch out. “Speaking of which, has he given you any grief about moving? He seemed a little put off by it this afternoon.”

“Not as put off as he is by this whole situation with your new boyfriend, apparently.”

Enjolras groans, dropping his head mid-stretch to shoot an upside-down glare at Combeferre. “He’s told you, then?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me yourself, you know as well as I do that Courfeyrac is the last person you would go to for romantic advice.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Combeferre counters, raising his eyebrows and taking a pointed sip of his coffee. Enjolras rolls his eyes, dropping to sit on the floor in a huff and grabbing his own takeout cup. “Why are you so worked up about it?”

“Because Courfeyrac needs to  _ mind his own business,” _ snaps Enjolras. “Why is this about me, anyway? I haven’t seen you in days, what have you been doing?”

Combeferre pushes himself away from the wall then, sinking to the floor in front of Enjolras and shrugging off his jacket. “Listening to Courfeyrac wax poetic about the merits of nightclubs, mostly. He makes a point of keeping up with me, even if you don’t.” His tone is cool and calm in that pointed way of his, the manner that always makes Enjolras feel a bit like a chastised little kid.

“So you’re mad at me?” Enjolras asks, ducking his head.

“Not really, you’ve been busy,” Combeferre replies. “And so have I, so I can’t really blame you.”

“But you’re mad at me.”

“A bit, yes.” Combeferre takes another sip of his coffee, then sets his cup to the side and leans back on his hands. “But that’s not why I came to see you. Courfeyrac mentioned that he walked out on you, and I was thinking I’d see what you had to say about that.”

Enjolras sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s gone to join some hip-hop dance crew he idolizes, and left me in the lurch. I’ve been scrambling to find a replacement since.” He tries his best to keep his tone nonchalant, but his words come out sounding rather more irritated than he intends. 

Combeferre gives him a noncommittal hum and nod, his trademark.

“You don’t think you could-” Enjolras starts, but Combeferre cuts him off with an apologetic shake of his head. 

“I’ll be gone in a month,” he says, with a small smile and downcast eyes. “You should find someone who can stick with you until the showcase.”

“I  _ have _ found someone, that’s the problem.”

“A ballerina?”

“Not anymore.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Combeferre’s eyes widen fractionally behind his thick glasses. “The boyfriend,” he says, more of a statement than a question. 

“Not my boyfriend,” Enjolras replies, without much feeling behind it. He’s beginning to feel like it’s a token argument at this point, if even Combeferre managed to get in on it somehow. Besides, if Courfeyrac is going to keep up with his ridiculous plan to prove Grantaire’s nonexistent affections, Enjolras might as well get used to it.

They sit in silence for a bit, sipping coffee and staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the street below. The noise of the city filters through the studio walls, soft white noise against the large, empty room the two are in. Enjolras wants to say something, wants to reassure Combeferre that the two of them will stay close friends after Combeferre leaves or explain the whole situation with Grantaire and Courfeyrac, but before he can form the words he’s cut off by yet another notification from his phone.

Combeferre laughs softly at this, pushing himself to his feet and handing over Enjolras’ phone from its place next to the speaker system.

“Check that,” he says, donning his jacket and gathering up his messenger back. Enjolras just watches him go, phone in one hand and half-empty coffee cup in the other. Before he leaves, Combeferre turns back, outlined in the soft hallway light, one hand braced on the doorframe and the other holding the studio door open. “And Enjolras?” he adds on, cocking his head to one side. “Talk to him, you might be surprised.”

With that, he leaves, the studio door swinging shut behind him and heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving Enjolras sitting dumbfounded in the center of the studio floor. In his hand, his phone vibrates again, three times in a row, and Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment to gather up his patience before checking the notifications.

There’s a series of texts from Courfeyrac, detailing various mundane things Grantaire had done at their rehearsal earlier, from stretching out to bringing out snacks for the ABC during a break. Interspersed through these are a few details about their routine and performance, including an invitation to an upcoming show at the Corinthe. Later, there’s a brief period of silence, followed by two texts from Combeferre;  _ Are you at the studio? _ and  _ I’m bringing you coffee _ respectively. What follows next, however, catches his eye as soon as it scrolls into view.

A text from Grantaire from half an hour before reads,  _ rehearsing? _ Enjolras reads it over once or twice, focusing on the singular word until an incoming notification forces his attention to the remaining four texts.

Five minutes before, Courfeyrac had sent a frantic-sounding  _ INCOMING _ , followed immediately by  _ please tell me ur at the studio. _ Sent two minutes later, Courfeyrac’s third text reads  _ you owe me so bad. _

The most recent, from thirty seconds before, displays Grantaire’s name in bold at the top of the screen.

_ look outside. _

Enjolras furrows his brows before staggering to his feet, leaving the coffee on the floor and shuffling over to the windows. He cracks one open, the low din of city life growing to a loud rush of noise filling the studio. He’s on the second floor, staring at the crowds below and the way the people on the sidewalk seem to move like a river around a single, solitary figure staring up at him from the pavement.

Grantaire holds up his phone, gesturing with it just as Enjolras’ own phone vibrates in his hand.

_ can i come up? _ the text reads, four words that leave Enjolras’ pulse hammering wildly in his chest. Below him, Grantaire is still looking up hopefully, waiting for a response. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Enjolras nods, exaggerated enough that he hopes Grantaire can see it from the street below, then turns away from the window.

He has about a minute and a half before Grantaire reaches the studio, maybe two if he gets lost in the hallways, and Enjolras scrambles to make himself look considerably more presentable than he does at the moment. He’s still in his ratty rehearsal t-shirt with holes in the seams and a frayed neckline, and once he wipes the sweat from his face and ties up his disastrous hair he makes a beeline for his practice bag in the hopes that he managed to bring a decent change of clothes. He roots through it one-handed, making a triumphant noise when his fingertips brush soft fabric and he pulls out a shirt in rather better shape than his current one. Praying Grantaire is still downstairs, he strips down as quickly as he can, not bothering with his leggings, tossing his old shirt into the bag as soon as the collar clears his head. He’s halfway through pulling the new shirt on, tugging it over his head, when the studio door opens and Grantaire makes an aborted choking noise at the sight of Enjolras’ bare stomach.

“Sorry- I’ll just-” he starts, at the same time that Enjolras blurts out some half-formed remark about just wanting to change his shirt, and after a perilously long moment the shirt is finally on and Enjolras is staring down those baby blue eyes for the first time in days.

“I came to say hi,” Grantaire says after a long pause, his voice stilted and nervous.

“Right,” Enjolras replies, too caught up in the fact that  _ Grantaire is here _ to process anything he hears.

“I’d ask you for coffee, but I think someone beat me to it,” Grantaire laughs, waving his hand towards the coffee cup still sitting on the floor in a vague, unmotivated gesture. Enjolras had all but forgotten Combeferre’s visit, despite the fact that it had been only five or ten minutes before that Combeferre had left. Grantaire, however, doesn’t seem to catch on to Enjolras’ panicked internal monologue, continuing on in the same hesitant manner. “But we can grab dinner? If you want, that is.”

Enjolras thinks of Eponine’s warning, of the defeated look in Grantaire’s eyes when he brought up ballet, and contrasted that to the bright-eyed smile he wears when dancing in front of a crowd. Suddenly, it feels like Enjolras knows two very different Grantaires - the man he is in front of his crew, in front of a crowd or in front of his friends or performing on the street, and the Grantaire standing in front of him, the vulnerable and hesitant figure asking Enjolras out for dinner as an attempt to break their silence.

All at once, Enjolras is distressingly aware of his current state, exhausted and sweaty and dressed in workout clothing, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He doesn’t particularly want to sit in public like this, but the last few days avoiding Grantaire and the Corinthe have emphasized just how much he likes the other man’s company, regardless of whether or not any of their friends think it’s a good idea for them to spend time together at all.

“I was actually about to head home,” he says by way of answer, and Grantaire’s face falls. “But you can tag along, if you want. You’ve made me breakfast twice, I should probably return the favor.”

Grantaire blinks once, twice, as if he isn’t sure he heard Enjolras correctly. After a moment, Enjolras cocks his head to the side in question, waiting for Grantaire to make up his mind.

“If - if that’s alright with you,” Grantaire says eventually, voice as breathless as if he had just climbed three flights of stairs, and when Enjolras gathers up his things and leads the way out of the studio, Grantaire follows as if in a daze.

Once, as they’re walking out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk, Enjolras feels a hand brush his own, but by the time he registers the contact Grantaire has already passed him and strode on ahead, and Enjolras dismisses it as coincidence despite the warmth spreading over his palm and fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are always appreciated, find me on tumblr at [wylans](http://wylans.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always super appreciated, kudos and comments are repaid with a promise of my undying love. as always, find me on tumblr at [wylans](http://wylans.tumblr.com)!


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